It’s officially fall in four days: A major holiday in the land of white girls.

I could not be more excited. I’m really sick of the sweat dripping down my back every time I walk outside for more than five minutes, especially when there’s no ocean I can frolic into like the beach baby that I dream of being.

We(I’m talking to all you fall-loving girls) know why fall is by far the best season out of the year.

Can you say lattes?

Just kidding. I can’t even drink coffee.

But, when it starts to get a little chilly, it’s time to start eating those mashed potatoes and building up a layer of warmth. Layers, ladies, layers.

That little extra pudge of love that falls out of your swimsuit?

Well, it’s fall, so nobody is allowed to give a shit.

Put on your sweater proudly and work those leggings, girl. You’re killin’ it in those boots.

But, it’s not all colorful leaves and cuddling by campfires.

I don’t have any beef with fall specifically, since I’m not genetically allowed to…

But, I do have an issue with pants.

I fucking hate pants.

…Unless they start with yoga-, or sweat-, or pajama-.

Dress Pants: Absolute NO.

Jeans: Dependent, though finding a good pair of jeans is a nightmare.

In my personal experience, the stretchier the better…contemplating checking out the maternity section this year.

…Or the kind that are so high waisted, they almost touch your boobs. Find a pair that is both stretchy and high wasted, and you, my friend, have hit the jackpot.

Look, I know why pants are necessary. Nobody wants to see my overgrown leg hair for four months. Plus, I’m too single for that.

But, it doesn’t change the fact that I hate them. They’re so restricting.

They have buttons and zippers; an uncomfortable necessity that I will never understand.

I really do love fall. I love wearing sweatshirts and boots and the crispness in the air is basically magic.

I applied for a job recently at a Professional Home Health Care Center.

Basically, my job would’ve been visiting clients'(old peoples’) homes, and giving them professional health care, whatever that means. I think the last time I took a CPR test was in the 7th grade, so personally, I find the title slightly misleading.

I was told that my job was to basically help these old(er) people with the annoying household-type stuff that your parents made you do when you were little, like Clorox the bathroom and scrub your two-day old lasagna off your plate.

I won’t lie, though, I was actually pretty excited about this. Helping someone wash their delicates and make them dinner brings me a weird sense of pride and joy.

In exchange for helping out the elderly folk do their dishes, vacuum their carpets, organize their ancient book collections, water their 1,450 plants, I was also told that I may leave smelling like a marijuana dispensary because, “Remember, this is Colorado.”

My first interview went really well. I could tell that the woman who I met with liked me a lot because we talked about salt water taffy and the changing color of the Aspen trees in October. I feel bad that I don’t remember her name.

Following our 25-minute bonding session, she told me that I would be a great fit and so I was pretty sure that I had the job.

All that was left was for me to take an online integrity test, and pass a standard background check.

I’m not a criminal, I’ve never been fired or arrested, and I don’t think the government has anything on me, so I was pretty sure the second part was a no-brainer.

I’ve never had to take an “integrity test” online before, but I also assumed this was a no-brainer. No part of me was nervous about the invasive questions I was about to receive regarding my intergrity.

There were about 60 or so questions. Over 50 % of them said something along the lines of these:

“Have you ever hit a co-worker before?”

“Have you ever lashed out at your co-workers in a violent manner?”

“Have you ever been physically abusive?”

….and now, think of at least 15 other variations of those questions, and that was over half of the test.

I am the queen of conversation. Give me a rock and I can come up with something interesting to say to it.

But I’m multi-dimensional, like most human beings, and sometimes, I don’t want to talk.

I don’t want to talk about anything, unless it’s really stupid shit that has no relevance to my own life.

Would it be acceptable to just hang a sign around my neck that says “Currently not speaking to anyone” or maybe, “I just lost my voice but I’d love some chocolate?”

Because, to whoever’s asking, you’re not going to like the answer.

The honesty may be too much, or the small talk will only bore you. You won’t even know that you’re being lied to.

And aren’t you sick of being lied to?

It’s all the little things that add up that turn your days of conversation into days of observation.

You start to convince yourself that your talking could only be a burden.

Until, one day, you’re lying in your bed late at night and you can’t sleep because your insides are aching so badly from all the words you left sitting inside of them.

Then, the moment comes; the moment when you realize that you should have dealt with all of this little stuff before it got so big.

And so, you text 15 people, even people who you know are horrible listeners, asking them “Are you awake?,” because now you NEED someone to talk to; paralyzed with fear that your organs might explode all over your freshly washed sheets.

…And nobody answers because they’re out drinking with their friends, or romancing with their lovers, or snoring away because they have a much better relationship with sleep than you do, as they should.

And so you put on a sad Coldplay song, and you cry until you realize that you’re sobbing so loud, you might scare the lady who’s always sitting on the street corner outside your house.

Outside, I can act calm and collected, intelligent and sophisticated, charming and usually appearing wise beyond my years.

But on the inside, my frontal lobe is still going through puberty. I would say he’s probably a teenager or so by now. Maybe 16 years old?; only thinking with his dick; abandoning reality for fantasy; choosing fun over consequence.

So what if I want to jump off a really high cliff into shark infested waters?

Or get on the back of a fast motorcycle with a stranger I met at the bar?

Or hop on a boat with no life jacket at 2 am in a foreign sea?

I probably shouldn’t trust most of the people that I do. I probably should stay away from men who are old enough to enjoy playing golf with my dad. I probably should go to class and finish my college degree before age 25 or so.

But, my frontal lobe has a mind of its own. It’s just thinking about tits and fast cars. I feed it vegetables but all it wants is adrenaline and whiskey.

Sometimes, I’m a classy lady.

But, most of the time, my frontal lobe is just itching to make one more stupid decision until one day I realize that I’ve thrown my life away in the most perfect way possible.